


Loose Ends

by secretidentity



Series: Grey Areas [5]
Category: Spy vs Spy
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Medicinal Drug Use, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Rivalry, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 21:21:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretidentity/pseuds/secretidentity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things will never be the same. The spies try to tie up some loose ends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loose Ends

**Author's Note:**

> The last part of my old Spy vs. Spy series, _Grey Areas_ , which was originally posted on Y!Gallery. Like my other stories on AO3, this has been lightly edited from the original text for readability.

It’d been six months since Black had faked his death. It hadn’t been an easy coup to pull off - he’d been severely hurt in the actual fight and had blacked out for God knows how long. For a while, he’d thought he’d failed; that he had actually died.  
\---

Opening his eyes hours after the incident, he saw the bright light of an overhead lamp and heard the soft sounds of metal instruments clinking against each other in a tray. He thought for a hysterical moment that he’d been picked up by the embassy’s emergency team. All that effort. _Wasted._ The instant he saw the concerned, wrinkled face of an elderly doctor lean over him, heard the man call him ‘Sir,’ and ask him his name, he knew. He was **free.**

His lungs heaved and he shook with a weak and grateful sort of laughter. “Dick Turpin.” Silence. “No relation.”

“That’s an . . . interesting name.”

“Thanks. I thought it up myself.”  
\---

When compared to his previous life, the short time he spent in the hospital was idyllic. He was once again in traction but the pain was negligible due to the generosity of the civilian nurses. Even with his handsome face partially obscured by bandages, he could often earn himself an extra dose of morphine with a pretty wink or a crooked smile. It helped.

The doctor told him that he’d severely injured his right leg - again - and that he’d walk with a limp for the remainder of his life. _I guess that’s what I get for jumping out of windows - shit._ He was told, “you’re lucky you didn’t break your back in half. You’re lucky you didn’t split your head open. You’re lucky you’re not dead,” but when he thought of the unknowns that lay ahead of him, life without danger (without White), he wasn’t so sure.

After checking out of the clinic, Black procured a modest hotel room. He paid for it out of the bank account that he’d kept separate and secret from his keepers. He read the obituaries religiously. He purchased back-copies from the date of his ‘accident,’ but never saw his real name or even an old moniker printed in the back-and-white list of unfortunates.

Black tried to live his life normally . . . or at least ‘Dick’ did. He hobbled to the café near his hotel room every morning for a cup of coffee and a croissant. He’d read the newspaper and complete the crossword as he ate his breakfast and then he would hobble back to his room for the remainder of the day, only going out for groceries. 

Even on Black’s short excursions outside, he felt as if he were being watched. The idea made his insides freeze and compelled him to wear a trilby hat to partially obscure his face. 

It would be months until he would be well enough to travel comfortably. The moment he could, he promised himself that he would go home to his mother country, and away from this place where war boils below the surface like a blister.  
\---

He is taking a drink of his morning coffee when he hears a familiar voice ask, “you call that a hat?” Black chokes on his mouthful, coughs, swallows and breathes. A pair of hands take hold of his shoulders and Black’s fight-or-flight instincts hit him like a truck - he turns his head and his eyes lock onto a thin, wry smile.

Fuck.

“What, no cutting remarks? No ‘you call that a suit?’”

_Fuck._

“No, ‘I thought you were dead?’”

“Whi-I. You _were_ dead.”

“You _thought_ I was dead. If I _had_ been dead I wouldn’t be standing here now, obviously. The doors to Hell only swing one way, _comrade._ ” He sits in the chair opposite of Black and puts his familiar pale, scuffed shoes up on the table. “Thanks for the lilies, by the way.”

Black’s skin itches and isn‘t sure if he’s angry, pleased or just downright frightened. He plays the bravado card: “That _is_ a fucking awful suit.”

“Thanks. I’m undercover. I thought brown checks would be sufficiently drab. How about you? _Navy?_ What were you thinking?”

“The same thing you were, apparently.”

Silence falls over the table and the men simply look at each other, measuring one another. White speaks first. “The crutch. How’d you get it?”

“I bought it. Fuck you.”

“I’m asking honestly, here. How’d you get it?”

“Attempted suicide, creep.” Not quite, but close. All the answer White deserves, in any case. “Doctors says I can upgrade to a cane once it’s healed.”

“That's something, at least.” White is quiet for a moment, considering his next words. He licks his lips and speaks, “I have to tell you - It took some real effort to track you after you went MIA.” White looks off to the side, “There were rumours going around about your death, but I couldn’t believe them . . . do you know how many hospitals I had to break into, and how many patient rosters I had to read before I found the place you were staying?"

“Your new moniker was what gave you away - ‘Dick Turpin.’” White rolls his eyes, “Very witty.”

“Is yours any better?”

“Of course - William Tell.”

“And you’re insulting _my_ moniker? You’re not even _Swiss._ ”

“It doesn’t look half as suspicious as ‘Dick Turpin’ on a hospital role call.”

“That's a matter of opinion, clearly.”

White takes his feet off the table and flags down a waitress. He orders a coffee, winks at her in a way that shouldn’t make Black jealous, but . . . no. He’s not jealous. White looks at him carefully, assessing his stiff shoulders and tight face. “It was rather boring watching you lay in traction. Flirting with nurses. They were enamoured with you. I’m surprised you didn’t get more than morphine out of them.”

The insinuation makes Black feel sick, reminds him of old-times and White sitting on his chest, pushing his fingers - his _prick_ \- into his mouth while Black was restrained by medical bondage. “You’re a _pervert._ Why are you here?”

“I wanted to catch up with an old friend. All work and no play certainly makes me a dull if not bored boy.”

“An old . . . friend.” Black fiddles with his drink, rolling the warm cup between his hands.

“Of sorts.”

“Why’d you fake your death? How did you . . . they told me they saw you _gutted,_ White.” 

They both fall quiet as the waitress brings White’s coffee. He smiles at her before stirring milk into his drink. He coughs and replies, “That was someone else. No one in the Black embassy except for you knows what I look like, unless you count the captured and the dead. It’s easy to put some poor guy in a white suit, gag him, call him ‘White’ and take him out. Don’t tell your embassy that, of course.” A sideways smile, “I’d have to kill you if you did.”

“I’m . . . I’m not planning on going back to them. So I’ll keep your secret as long as you keep mine.”

“...oh.”

A jovial couple takes the table next to them, and White covertly raises a hand to shield one side of his face. He leans in to Black and murmurs, “. . . this conversation isn’t something I want overheard. We should either shut up or . . .”

“Yeah, yes. Definitely. I have uh - we could walk.”

“You’re using a goddamn crutch, and you’re suggesting we go for a stroll? I already know where you’re staying; if we went to your hotel I wouldn’t be learning anything I don’t already know.”

Black glares at him, leans across the table and mutters, “The last time you were in my apartment, you literally stuck a gun up my ass. _My_ gun. Up my _ass._ Do you think I want to take you to my apartment?”

“It’s no worse than you using a stun gun on me, bastard. I could always abduct you later, if that’s what you’d prefer.” The threat doesn’t surprise Black - he’s used to this game. “Look, we need to talk and I’d like to do it the easy way.” As if anything is easy in their lives. Black nods tersely and drinks the bitter dregs of his coffee.  
\---

The distance to the hotel is short. Inside Black’s humble suite, Black offers White some wine. “I only have red, and it’s warm.”

“That’s fine.”

Black plays the role of the host stiffly. He pours the wine and they make their way into the great room - White takes the couch and Black eases his aching body slowly into the armchair opposite him. They spend a few moments in silence, sipping the mediocre merlot.

Black speaks first; “You wanted to talk.” White puts his glass down and rubs his palms together briskly.

“Yes. You need to go back to the embassy.”

Black takes a long drink. He wipes his mouth and answers “no.”

“Black. It’s . . . work is shit without you. Your countrymen are terrible at espionage.”

“They are not. Besides, I was shot in the thigh - twice,” he sets his glass aside, “My femur broke in three places.” The colour rises in Black’s face as he continues, “on my left side, I dislocated by hip and fractured my tibia.” He rubs his thighs at the memory. “Nothing works right anymore and everything fucking hurts.”

“You’ll bounce back.”

A scoff. “I’ll need a cane for the rest of my life, bastard.”

“That doesn’t mean your career is over.”

Black laughs bitterly, his ribs shaking. “No, the fact my career is over means that my career is over-” Black’s leg seizes, “Nng - Aah!” His knuckles pale as he grips the armrests of his chair. “God, _God._ ” He'd forgotten all about his pain medication. White had distracted him, had _antagonized_ him, and now - he reaches a trembling into his pocket to retrieve his painkillers but White is beside him, removing them from his grasp.

“These aren’t good for you. Avoid them as much as possible.” He sits on the floor in front of Black and takes his twitching leg in hand. “Just relax. Where is the pain?” Black’s reply is an inarticulate moan.

“It really hurts, huh?” White rubs Black’s thigh firm and slow, stroking over the inside of his knee and moving back to massage his hamstring.

“A small price to pay for my freedom. You can . . . you can stop that, White. You don’t need to. It‘ll pass - I just need one of those _pills._ ”

“No, let me fix it.”

White massages Black’s leg in silence for a long time. The ache eases and Black can finally relax a bit. He sighs as White’s fingers stroke and press all of the right places on his limb. Finally, White murmurs, “Your career doesn’t have to be over. If you don’t want to go back to your embassy, mine would gladly -” and all of his hard work is undone. Black’s muscles tense under his hands.

From between his clenched teeth, Black utters, “I’d die before working for the White Nation.” White makes soothing sounds and continues to knead Black’s stiff leg. 

“Don’t be like that. You’re aggravating your injury, idiot.” White’s hand slides up to rub between Black’s thighs, over his limp cock. Black’s heart jumps like a frightened rabbit; his hips thrust up quick and sharp and he cries out at the pain in his leg. “Shit! Don’t -”

“I promise I’ll be good to you.”

“Fuck, White -” He reaches down with both hands and grips White’s wrist.

“Just let me . . . c’mon.” White nips the inside Black’s thighs through the wool of his trousers, and Black nervously releases his hold. White flicks the button open and drags down the zip. He presses his face into Black’s boxer covered cock and sighs. “I’ve really missed this.”

Black scoffs, attempting to hide how nervous he is. “My dick?”

“Something like that.” White slips his hand inside of Black’s boxers and strokes his cock, pulls it out nice and gentle. 

White strokes Black’s prick, too softly - softly enough to make Black more nervous than he already is - and wraps his inquisitive lips around the exposed head and just laps his tongue against that little slit. Black thrusts up without thinking and White chokes, flushes, comes back for more. Black remembers - a brief moment that occurred what feels like years ago - White’s lips on his cock and . . . White loves sucking cock.

Gaining courage, Black drapes his good leg over White’s back and uses it to pull him closer. He clears his throat and utters “touch yourself.” White moans, buries his face between Black’s thigh and cock and obeys. He strokes himself quickly - like he’ll finish any second now. He sucks sloppily at the side of Black’s cock and his breath comes in pants, washing over Black’s tightening balls.

“That’s . . . that’s fucking hot, White. You look . . .” He grips White’s hair in one fist and pulls him further down on his prick. White lifts up, tries to pull off of Black but that hand keeps him there, forces his nose down. White trembles - moans around Black’s spit-slick cock and swallows like his life depends on it. The hand on the back of his head lets up, and White pushes himself away from Black.

He coughs, inhales, squeezes his engorged member and lets out a desperate cry. His own ejaculate spills over his fingers and Black can’t look away.

“God, White that’s . . . _White._ ” And he’s swallowing Black down again, taking everything his rival has to offer. He pulls away slowly, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, and sits back between Black’s spread feet.

Black covers his own eyes with a weary hand. “I’m still not coming back, White. And . . . and If I did, it certainly wouldn’t be on your side.”

“It’s not fun without you, Black.”

“Maybe you should start thinking about retirement.”

White laughs. “My retirement plan is a mahogany box, buried six feet deep.”

It seems inevitable; one day he’ll walk back through those doors and be greeted as a lost hero returning to Ithaca. He’ll return to the trigger happy existence he’s used to, return to fighting wars and rumbling with White.

And that might be okay.

After all, it’s the natural order of things.

But for now . . . for now he was just going to lay in bed and recover.

Good plan.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.


End file.
